As Rain
by unnafraher
Summary: Norway goes to Bergen for a few days to check on his house there. Iceland turns down the invitation to join him. Denmark invites himself, and may just learn why Bergen is called the Rainy City. -Multi-part-


This piece, for a couple of reasons, has become important for me to try and finish. This was originally posted elsewhere a few months ago, so I've editted it a little before posting it here. I'm working on parts two and three, so, hopefully, those will be up soon. Footnotes are at the end, if you survive that long!

* * *

1.

When he arrives at this, his house in Bergen, the first thing Norway does is take a deep breath and smell the air. The sky is clear and a sharp cerulean, and it smells as fresh as it looks, so that probably means that rain is on the way. And Norway is almost sure that it is, there's a pressure in his bones, like his body is kind of barometer.

On the paved street a few metres away, a car drives by. As its sound die away, a dog barks and a bird chirps. Norway looks around; past a bright yellow house and through some trees he can see someone's laundry drying on a line. The family is probably more modern than that—and more well-off—but there's nothing wrong with drying linens and shirts that way. It's a bit nostalgic, and, Norway things, natural drying always does something, adds something extra, something like the clothes come back in smelling of the sun.

That's a nice smell, Norway thinks as he turns back to his door. Sunlight is always nice, whether it's being felt or smelt. He digs in his pocket for his key, finds it, inserts it in the slot. The smell of rain is nice, too. He turns the key and jiggles the doorhandle, to check. He tells himself quite reasonably, It's just inconvenient to get your laundry rained on when it's drying.

It's kind of like defeating the purpose.

–

Norway starts dinner at 4:30. He's already aired out the house so only a window or two have been left open. Any breeze wafting through the house is soft and intermittent; the settled layer of dust has been upset and chased out. His clothes have been unpacked and put away.

The sun has begun to sink, and from his kitchen window he can see the sunlight hitting the water, setting the surface of it shimmering in a dazzling, restless dance from the other side of the bay to the older quayside. While he decides on what he wants to eat, he watches the light. The surface of the water almost looks corrugated; a line of white foam grows behind a boat coming back to port.

Maybe he should have gone down to centre of the city to get something to eat. Seeing the water from the sea makes him think of fish, and the smell of something with fins sizzling in a neighbour's kitchen makes him crave it all at once.

He stands up and goes to the fridge to look for something frozen, or maybe something premade, but he definitely wants to eat fish. And if he can't find it he'll settle for pizza, because, if all else fails, he can get himself to want a hot slice with the anchovies and pineapple picked off. Glancing over what little there is, though, he doesn't find any pizza, and he doesn't want the frozen orange juice.

He also sees some vodka, but he's sure that he didn't leave that the last time he was here, last year. He stares at it for a bit.

Taking the bottle of vodka out of freezer, he sets it on the counter with a definitive chink. Quite obviously it isn't his: the label reads Frïs. It's that foreign stuff Denmark likes. And Norway prefers beer to liquour.

The clear liquid magnifies things, so he looks at an enlarged vision of his counter for a moment. Then he looks at the window and the clock, from one to the other. For a moment he almost wants to pour the stuff down the drain, but it's getting late. Twenty to five. The sun has sunken a little lower. If he understands the rhythm of this kind of thing and knows how these visits always go, then-

But he won't think about that right now, about what's—and who's—to come. Instead he decides to enjoy the sounds around him. It isn't quieter than his house in Oslo, it's just that the type of sounds are just different. He can hear more kids playing, and the traffic is lighter. Only once in a while can he hear a car go by. A neighbour has set out a windchime, and when a breeze blows by, it tinkles. Someone's got a TV on. Things heard not through walls, but through open-air.

Looking once again, he tries to decide on something to eat. Maybe, he figures, if he looks long enough he'll stumble upon something. That's the problem with not living in a house: it almost becomes unlivable. With no domestic life, there's nothing and no-one to keep up the domestic scene in the time it's vacated.

But it's not like Norway really cares. He isn't here because the place is comfortable, which it is, he's here because it's been awhile. It's good to check on things—make sure things are working, that the winter didn't destroy anything this year. No frozen pipes and burst pipes, no animals living indoors.

He's had a residence in Bergen for such a long time now, since back when the Hanse(i) were around, though of course he hasn't always owned the same house—Bergen, like any good European city, has got a habit of catching on fire every so often. Each place has had its own demands and concerns, but it hasn't always been easy to make the trip to check on them.

Back in 1909, though, that changed. The railroad went in, and it was easier for him to get to Bergen. He no longer had to rely on his neighbours to keep an eye on his house.

There's a knocking on his door.

Norway puts the foodstuff he's got in his hand—expired crackers that might not be completely stale—on the counter next to the things he's already found: the foreign vodka, a half-consumed packet of Kavli flatbread preserved in a plastic baggie, canned peaches. But beyond that, he doesn't move. There's a pause.

Then the knocking resumes, and this time he can hear someone calling something short over and over again: _Nor, Nor, Nor, Nor_.

Norway doesn't even have to think about this one. Obviously it's Denmark who's at his door. His travelling outside of Oslo generates some kind of unknown magnetism, for. as long as it isn't in the winter, Denmark is attracted, and will follow. Sometimes, of course, this following might have something to do with news of the trips getting around to him, for Norway often invites Iceland—and sometimes others—to spend some time with him. Iceland is invited because how could Norway not? Others are invited because it's good for tourism.

This is part of the reason why Norway doesn't invite Denmark: Denmark prefers beautiful homes to beautiful hills, bike lanes to ascending trains. And it's not like it matters very much, if he's invited or not. Denmark will come anyway.

The knocking is harder this time, and the person at the door yells something that sounds like, "come on, Nor, I know yer in there."

Norway shrugs, looking out of the window a bit longer. Another boat is coming to port, and, across the fjord's water, mountains rise up. He decides; he takes out a jar of strawberry jam, sets this too on the counter, and then goes to the door.

Before Denmark can begin another assault on the door, it opens. There's Norway, dressed in a sweater and jeans despite the spring season, his eyes and demeanour dull and cool as ever. His vague annoyance and unvoiced dismissal is displayed in the slight curve of his brow, but how could Denmark notice that?

Of course, Denmark knows, Norway is happy to see him, never mind that this is "official business" between countries. The reason Denmark states when he comes like this to visit Norway is maintaining relations—good neighbours often visit each other, spend time together in inconsequential ways. Like on vacation. This is a poor half-excuse, but he doesn't really worry about that. He knows that even if Norway can't ever admit—because he's not that kind of person, has never been for centuries—h enjoys the company.

So, without any kind of warning, because he never gives any such kind of warning, Denmark places a hand on Norway's shoulder. He's been smiling since the door opened. Now his smile grows wider and brighter as he greets his best friend.

"Hey, Nor, nice to see ya," he says, and usually by now he would have cheerfully and ignorantly deflected unkind words or gestures from Norway. But when Norway's is physically present in his own place, he's much more calm and subdued—he's more affected by the atmosphere, in-tune with the natural ambiance. Norway in Norway, Denmark thinks, is like a slice of good Jarlsberg cheese: mild, mellow, and nutty (as he usually is).

"You're here," Norway replies.

Denmark, smiling, pats Norway's back. His hand lingers for a moment on the soft, woolly shoulder before he walks past the other and into the house. He has one shoe kicked off before Norway can turn around. As he kicks off his second shoe, he grins and reaches out for Norway, who doesn't put up resistance, just scowls. Then, after the door is closed, he pulls Norway into a hug and becomes completely engrossed by his presence.

"'course I'm here!" Denmark says, placing his chin on Norway's head. Without registering the tension that is obviously tightening the nation in his arms, he continues, "'nd glad I am."

And at that, there's a pause, a silence. Norway's hand, which is clutched against Denmark's shirt, is released and held flat. Almost like a relief—Denmark's just here to see him. Deflated like a balloon, Norway collapses a bit against Denmark's chest. He lets of the side of his face rest there, too.

Denmark then draws away so that he can look down at Norway. He's still smiling. "So, when's dinner?"

"I don't know when your hotel serves it. Room service'll come whenever, you know," Norway says, pulling away.. Very clearly he's letting Denmark know he hasn't been invited to stay—at least not yet. He has to ask.

"Nah, not staying in a hotel," Denmark says. "Ya'll just have hafta hoist my flag(ii) for me here." Norway is staring at him, so Denmark stares back for a while. Then he grows bored and lets go of the smaller nation. Because he's hungry, and, because he hasn't been sent out, it's obvious to him that he's welcome to stay.

So he ignores the other's mood—including the comment about mooching off the Norwegian economy—that is coming at him in waves, and wanders into the kitchen. The kitchen window frames the same image of the old, rebuilt port that he remembers from his last visit—if any new signs have been put up or buildings been built, he can't tell. And as nice as the view is, his attention quickly goes to the food laid out, the flatbread and jam, canned fruit, and vodka. Hardly a sumptuous meal, but it's not nothing.

Looking over his shoulder, he asks, "Ya didn't go to yer market yet?"

Norway, standing in the doorway, shrugs.

"Not even the kiosk?"

No reply. Norway walks to the table and sits down; he's giving Denmark a look that's particularly nasty—got enough implied vitriol to make any sensible person flinch. And it doesn't bother him that Denmark isn't remotely bothered by it. No matter how much he narrows his eyes, he knows that he's not going to be able to get Denmark to leave, not after he's invited himself in and made it into the kitchen. And especially now, as Denmark breaks the seal on the vodka and proceeds to look for a glass. Once he finds one in a cupboard, he rummages through the fridge for something to mix it with.

"I'll go in the morning," Norway says to no-one in particular. "You're bringing in your bags."

"'Course I am! I'll get to it in a bit—have ya got any beer?"

Making a vague gesture towards the counter, Norway gets up. "That's all I found."

"I see."

As Denmark continues to search, Norway stands besides him, spreading jam on the flatbread. In a few moments, he'll be flinging some at Denmark.

–

That night, Norway has a dream.

He's standing on the quay, facing out to sea as his fishing boat, tied to a dock nearby, bobs up and down. And he stands there for a long while. Watching.

The sun moves in increments as the clouds skip by in quick, artificial jerks. Eventually, evening descends.

Someone behind him calls his name. The voice is ineffable, deep and dim, and as he tries to figure out who it belongs he turns around. There are Holland and Denmark and—who? Prussia? Germany?-standing side by side. Denmark is smiling, Holland not so much—they're each holding up a fish. Fish they will be selling in Bergen.

Then they laugh. And laugh, like there's some kind of joke between them. Finally they stop, and Denmark begins to say something in German, but Norway doesn't hear him because suddenly he's awake.

Starting, he sits up and tries to calm his breathing. From the damp feeling on the sheets and under his arms he can tell that he's been sweating. It's a gross feeling, really, and he almost goes to take a shower. But, instead, he rises from the bed and opens a window. He stands there for a while without making a sound. He's studying the city, noting the way that each light reflects in the sea. He can tell that several boats are out yet, because in the distance several lights float, like will-o-wisps on a lazy breeze.

There have always been lights in this city and in its port, that he remembers. Used to be oil and gas, not electric. Light of the earth, not light from the wall. Red and yellow flames burned, not blue. That was when people used paraffin lamps and burnt whale oil. When a man, solemn and quietly proud to bring light to the darkness, walked the city every night to light the lamps lining the cobbled streets...

The stars are visible as well, more than he can see at his other home. There is a ring around the moon, an icy halo, a sight that makes him think of things-silver bells, an icicle shaped like a Möbius strip, a fishing net woven out of cold light. The type of things he thinks of when he moved himself that extra layer or two away from reality.

After a while, he's seen enough. He crosses the room and, ignoring Denmark's arm that is now splayed at the base of his pillow, he settles back into place and waits for sleep.

* * *

i - Hanse – A group of German merchants that basically controlled trade in a lot of regions. So much so that they had political power, often getting involved in local politics. They helped fuel some of the Nordic conflicts for their own interests, providing such things as ships, funds, and contraband. They found Dano-Swedish wars particularly profitable.

ii - Since Denmark is visiting, he figures that Norway will mark the occasion by flying his flag.


End file.
